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At dinner, while Emma was serving Cathy and Victor portions of steak, Robert was neither melancholy nor sullen. He felt a need to communicate his intuitions. Presuming that his son and daughter were old enough to be interested in all things, he expounded his idea to them: “A weed is a plant that’s not in its proper place. It would be proper in a meadow, but it’s improper in a garden. You have to have the courage to pull it up. By the roots. A yard, and especially a garden, must not be abandoned to nature. If you let it go, it will soon be nothing but brush land.”

Cathy and Victor counted the minutes until they’d be allowed to leave the dinner table. Emma didn’t say a word. But when her husband picked up his fork, she exclaimed, “Robert, your hands are all muddy!”

The teens burst out laughing. Robert had to go and wash his hands, as if he’d regressed to the time of his childhood.

He next devoted himself to composting. There were two kinds of compost; the kind you buy in stores and nurseries, and the kind you made yourself. This discovery delighted Robert. Cut brush, peelings, tea leaves, coffee grounds—they all mingled together behind the toolshed, decomposed into humus, and were returned to the earth. Less waste, less stuff inexorably headed for the dump.

The more he planted and spaded and planted again, the more stones rose up from the depths of the soil.

One evening, over dessert, he declared, “The movement of things in general is from the earth to the sky.”

Victor stood up and said, “Math homework.”

Emma went to the window to have a cigarette. She stared into space, exhaling puffs of smoke. Robert tried to catch his wife’s eye but couldn’t.

Ever since he’d thrown himself heart and soul into gardening, his family had looked at him as though he were some sort of strange animal. How could he make them understand that the only goal of all that activity was to bring him closer to them?

For some time, Emma had been coming home later and later. At first Robert hadn’t paid much attention. But one evening
when his wife returned flushed and slightly disheveled, he remembered her words:
I don’t want to settle anything. I just want revenge, you bastard
.

It was after midnight. Emma was asleep upstairs. As for Robert, he couldn’t sleep. He was in the yard, pacing back and forth and considering the hypothesis of his wife’s lover.

In the darkness, he smelled more than saw the flowers that embellished the lawn. Very early in the spring, he’d seized the opportunity to plant petunias, but he was surprised they’d bloomed so soon. From where he stood, he could inhale their faint but pervasive fragrance.

An idea came to him. Tomorrow, as early as possible, he’d get his wife involved in the renewal of their garden. They’d plant things together on their scant acre of land and recycle their missteps, their remorse—all the compost accumulated between them.

“Darling, does our garden have any importance for you?”

Emma put down her still-steaming cup. “But yes … it always has.”

“Has it?”

“When we moved here, we promised we’d replant the garden together.”

Emma lowered her eyes. Those days were long gone. “I’m sorry,” Robert said.

Emma looked at him as though she thought he was going to tell her about another flight attendant.

“I’ve taken the garden too much to heart, I haven’t left you any room. I’d like—”

“I’m going to be late.”

She stopped short. Robert had taken her hand. He ran his
thumb over her fingers as though brushing petals. He said, “I’d like you to help me replant the garden.”

Emma gently withdrew her hand. She nodded to him, swallowed a last mouthful, and left.

A few seconds later, he heard the car start. He felt serene, well on the way to saving his marriage.

He walked out to the garden. “Those petunias are a mistake,” he thought, inhaling their fragrance.

A few days later, a Sunday, the yard was drenched in sunlight, and Emma and Victor were stirring the compost. A sudden interest in gardening had seized the teenager. Intent on removing the ivy from a low wall, Robert listened with one ear to the exchange between his wife and son.

“You have to turn over the compost so the grass won’t stagnate,” she said. “Here, turn it over with this spade.”

“Like that?”

“Dig deeper. Really hump it!”

Victor started laughing. It was the bright laughter that hadn’t been heard from him for years. Emma wet down the compost with the yellow watering can.

This is my family
, Robert thought.
This is my garden
.

There was a continuous buzzing of bumblebees and flies. Robert felt like humming, but he was afraid of drowning out the murmur of life that was rising all around him.

The next day Emma, with a gleam in her eye, shared an idea with him: “I have the solution for your petunias. We’ll mix in some columbine.”

The overalls she had on were too large for her. One strap
had slid down from her bare shoulder. As Robert finished uprooting the ivy, Emma came over to him.

He had a strong urge to undress her, but Cathy, recently returned from her latest runaway episode, was in her room, listening to some deafening rock music and hopping around in front of her window. There was a chance she could see them.

“I could get some that are already in bloom,” Emma said.

“I don’t like that idea. Their scents are going to get mixed up.”

“That’s the point.”

“I told you I didn’t want intrusive fragrances. I’d rather replace the petunias with—”

“Columbine isn’t intrusive. It has a fresh, subtle scent.”

“You’ve smelled it?”

“Nikos has some lovely columbines.”

“Who’s he?”

“Nikos. His shop’s across the street from where I work.”

The name meant nothing to him.

“He’s a
florist
,” she said, emphasizing the word.

Robert looked at her. “I’ve never seen the guy.”

“He’s got excellent taste,” Emma assured him.

“I don’t see what taste has to do with it.”

She made a little rebellious face. “You can trust him. He’s good at what he does.”

“Why should I trust him?” Robert grumbled, his eyes on the ivy. “I’ve never seen this guy in my life.”

He gave in on the columbine front. Emma wanted columbine, and the garden was, after all, their joint
undertaking. But those columbine plants annoyed him. With them, his conception of a healing garden was shattered. Emma’s fondness for aromatic plants that smelled of sophistication and luxury carried all before it.

No more sage, fennel, angelica, or verbena, the herbs to which he’d wanted to consecrate his acre of land. Emma banished them with a declaration; she said they made the yard smell like a hospital.

“A hospital?”

“Some sterile place,” she replied, shears in hand. “I want a garden, not an old-folks home.”

Robert protested: “I agreed to the white roses, and now they’re the only things you can smell.”

“Of course. That’s the dominant note.”

“We never talked about any dominant note.”

“All gardens have one.”

“But not mine! Mine’s supposed to be soothing!”

“
Yours
?
Yours
?” she said, throwing away her shears. “I thought we were sharing this garden!”

With her cheeks aflame and her shoulders hunched, she went back inside the house.

She passed within a few inches of Robert, but he couldn’t distinguish her scent.

A promiscuous jumble of fragrances prevented him.

He’d restrained himself from mentioning the florist. But that man—the Greek, as Robert called him—was no stranger to their quarrels.

Nikos Kalifatides (Robert had made inquiries) weighed heavily on his mind. And what was worse, he was infringing on his flower beds.

Nikos had supplied the seeds, the fertilizer, and the watering advice that had fomented many an argument between Emma and Robert.

Sitting by the window of a coffee shop, Robert paged through a newspaper with one eye on the building where his wife worked. The Greek’s shop (
NIKOS—FLOWERS AND NATURE
) was also on this side of the avenue. The lettering of his sign was heavily embellished with flourishes.

“ ‘Flowers and Nature,’ ” Robert grumbled aloud. “What do you think you are, an herbalist?”

At ten minutes past five o’clock, when Emma still hadn’t come out, he ordered another cappuccino. He was waiting to be served when he saw her, accompanied by a colleague. The two women were laughing, as though about a confidence they’d just exchanged.

They crossed the avenue and headed straight for the coffee shop. This was so unexpected that Robert remained at the counter, paralyzed by surprise.

Emma came in first. “What are you doing here?” she said.

She hesitated to smile.

“I came looking for you—”

“Cappuccino latte, mocha,
latte mocha
!” the barman shouted, pushing a cardboard cup toward him.

“Is something wrong? The children?”

Robert shook his head vigorously. Reassured, Emma turned to her colleague. “My husband,” she said.

“I see.”

She looked as sorry as Emma did.

His wife must have guessed that he suspected her of having an affair. Nevertheless, she made no effort to set his mind at rest. She even came home from work later and later.

Robert wanted to be clear about what was going on. He decided to pay a visit to the Greek.

The man lived a few minutes from their house. To give himself courage, Robert made a detour to his usual bar. Gus, the owner, received him with that mixture of embarrassment and cordiality barmen reserve for the heaviest drinkers.

“I’m on the wagon,” Robert announced, taking a stool at the bar.

Gus was adjusting the sound system, lowering the volume. He nodded.

“I’m devoting myself completely to my garden.”

“So what’ll it be?”

For the space of an instant, Robert had the feeling he’d never replanted his garden and all that activity had existed solely in his imagination. He was a penniless writer who cheated on his wife and had shown up in this bar to drown his shame.

“Bourbon,” he said, laying his hands on the bar.

He was staring at his spread fingers, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gus’s hairy hands go into motion. A glass of liquor landed under his chin.

He took a swig and put the glass down again. It was nearly empty. The other customers—a mustached man in a
sleeveless undershirt, a buxom redhead, and a puny old man Robert had never seen before—darted questioning looks at the barman. They took Robert for an eccentric or a wino.

He waited until Gus’s eyes came back to his and then said, “I have a garden now. A garden and a family. I have no intention of leaving them to someone else.”

“You’re right,” Gus said, putting up the bottle of bourbon.

“Yeah!” the old man spluttered.

“You gotta stand up for yourself, handsome,” the redheaded woman said.

Robert thought he recognized her as a former actress who had always appeared in supporting roles. The two of them, the redhead and the old man, were drunk. Their half-closed eyes gleamed. Why were they laughing at something that wasn’t funny? He threw some coins on the bar and left.

When he reached the Greek’s house, he checked the address. Yes, he’d come to the right place. On a copper placard, letters in the same style as those he’d seen on Nikos’s shop sign spelled out a single name:
CHARMANCE
.

It was hot. The buzzing of insects grew louder and louder. Robert began to tremble. He was burning to see the guy come out of his house. Would he be able to refrain from hitting him?

“ ‘Charmance,’ ” he muttered, as though it were a swearword. Robert hated neologisms, seeing in them only contempt for good usage. And he added that word to the list of his grievances against the Greek.

The house was either old or fixed up to seem so and decorated with rustic accessories. A few little granite
fountains, some wooden barrels painted with green varnish, and several black-lacquered buckets were set out on the terrace. A horseshoe adorned the front door. The shutters were open, but the house seemed empty. Robert’s gaze fell on a cart with no wheels but fitted with a handle and paddles, most probably an old machine for beating laundry. The Greek was using it as a flower planter. Robert recognized the columbine that Emma had introduced into the garden.

A walkway ran along the right side of the house. He clenched his fists and started down the walkway.

He could already imagine the blood reddening the gravel and the Greek’s body dragged under the plow that stood next to the path.

Behind the house Robert found the garden. He stared at it openmouthed. The Greek’s garden was three times the size of his.

The profusion of petals and stems, the alternation of greens and blues, violets and yellows, formed figures like those of an agile skater. Here and there, broad, flat areas of lawn reposed the eye. A water-lily basin made a crystalline, murmuring sound. Behind some brightly spotted orchids, Robert spotted a ginkgo tree, the kind he dreamed of possessing. It exhaled a pollen that combined each flower, each stamen, each pistil. And for the first time, Robert felt the inner peace, the sensation of harmony that his own garden, despite all the work he’d put into it, had never inspired in him.

“Naturally,” he said aloud. “You’re a florist. That’s how you earn your living. You’re a real pro.”

And he began to weep.

He contemplated the Greek’s garden, but it was his own ruin he was looking at. It was the futility of his efforts.

Robert noticed a small shed on his left, not far away. It contained tools, bags of fertilizer, and some clay pots. The shed adjoined a greenhouse with tinted glass panes like those in stained-glass windows. On a panel in the back of the greenhouse, there was a painting of a woman. She was wearing a blouse with an open collar and gazing at him. Robert told himself she looked like Emma, but it was hard to see at that distance.

He didn’t go closer to check. He knew that whatever he did, devastating thoughts would torment him.

The florist, as it turned out, was nowhere to be found. Tears ran down Robert’s cheeks, but he knew the Greek’s absence was beyond his control. There was nobody for him to hit, no rival to eliminate. No way out. He’d reached the end of himself.